


Air

by MillyVeil



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Asphyxiation, BAMF Natasha, Captivity, Choking, Clint Angst, Clint Barton Angst, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint Barton Whump, Clint Needs a Hug, Clint whump, Comfort, Gen, Humiliation, Hurt Clint, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Original Character(s), Nightmares, Pissed off Natasha, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prompt: Avengerskink LJ, Strangulation, Torture, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2018-09-20 23:04:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9519965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillyVeil/pseuds/MillyVeil
Summary: In a moment of detached clarity, Clint realizes that this might be it. He might die here, in this cell, at the hands of people who are not holding a grudge or trying to extract information from him. He might die because they are bored.[This story started out as a one-chapter story, just an excuse to heap some hurt on my favorite Avenger. Then I decided to write it as a three part thing, with the rescue and some aftermath. I'm now at chapter 5, hoping that chapter 7 will be the last part...]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just want to let you know that this story has not been abandoned. I will complete it, but it will probably not get done before I complete my other WIP, Must Be A Bad Connection.
> 
> ETA 2018: Still no abandoned. I promise.

**~~~~ Air **

by MillyVeil

They make him crawl. They make him cross the cold floor on scraped up hands and knees, getting himself from one side of the room to the other, from one tormentor to the other. He fought them at first, loudly and viciously, but he's long past that now. The only thing left is surviving. The next minute. The next couple of seconds. 

As soon as they had stepped in and the door had locked behind them, Clint had known with every cell of his being that these two were infinitely more dangerous than the steroid inflated assholes who had dragged him down the hallway for questioning the previous night, the ones who had gone to town on him when he didn’t answer the questions. These two guys are different. Calm. Unhurried. Moving with the kind of fluid casualness that makes him think of prowling Dobermanns. They’re the real deal. Highly trained. Highly dangerous.

They’re _him_.

But there has been no questions this time, no interrogation and the guy had smiled pleasantly when he told Clint they were just passing time. Surely Clint could sympathize with wanting to alleviate boredom.

Quite simply, he's entertainment, so on second thought, no, they’re not him.

It's been going on for a while. The floor below him keeps going in and out of focus, and he blinks to clear his eyes. He'd already been in bad shape when these two stepped in, courtesy of last night's date with an extendable baton. He thinks something might be fractured, because pain flares sharp and bright in his ribs if he as much as shifts. But he has no choice, he has to keep going. If he stops they'll hurt him. They'll hurt him anyway, he knows that by now, but not until he reaches the other side of the large room. It's not much, but the time it takes for him to cross the floor on all four is all the rest he gets. He has learned the hard way that stalling too much means the rest is cancelled. The lessons about refusing or fighting had been even harder. They're brutal, but he's not allowed to escape into unconsciousness, twice he's been roused by what what felt like an EpiPen, because the transition from fuzzy darkness to knife-sharp, over-saturated consciousness had been instantaneous and disorienting. From nothingness to overload in point one second. Everything had been so bright and loud and frightening. He'd felt everything so keenly, every little bruise and cut, the cold concrete floor underneath him, the sweat on his skin, the smell of engine oil and paint thinner. One of those must have contained something more than just Epinepherine, because it had left him with nothing more than just basic coordination, had seeped the strength from his body and stolen most of his ability to fight back. And that's when the game had changed. 

A boot gives his side a push, and he loses what little balance he has. Vicious pain spikes in his head and nausea rolls up right behind. He presses his cheek against the cold floor and desperately tries to keep from throwing up, because his skull is going to break open if he does, he's sure of it, it hurts so bad. The boot connects with his side. It's not quite a kick, but it's a clear enough message. 

It's hard, but he makes it to his hands and knees. He feels heavy, like the ground is trying to keep him, trying to hold on to him. Number Two stands over him and waits. Clint calls him Two in his head, because number One, the alpha out of the two, is the other guy, the one sitting on the metal construction that has served as Clint’s bed for the past days. He gets a shove that almost sends him sprawling again and moves one hand a few inches forward. Then the other. His movements are jerky and out of synch. They've been at this for hours.

All too soon Clint reaches One. He stops just out of reach. It's all he's got left in him, half-hearted defiance. Play their game, he keeps telling himself. Stay alive. Don't give them a reason to kill you, every minute is another minute for the guys to find you and get you out of this hell. Play the game.

"Closer." One’s voice is even, but the unspoken threat is as plain as anything. There's a touch of Virginia in the words. North Carolina, maybe. 

Clint inches forward until his shoulder touches One’s leg like he knows the man wants. Play the game.  

Seconds drag by, and all Clint hears is his own ragged breathing. Then One's hands are on his shoulders and the angry hiss in Clint's ears turns high-pitched and loud. He knows he'll pay for it, knows he's making it worse, but the need to escape is bright and sharp like a knife, and he topples over backwards. No, he can't, he _can't_ , not again. But it's useless, he's too slow, too uncoordinated and fucked up to mount any kind of resistance that counts when One grabs his ankle and hauls him back. Clint kicks, his nails breaking against the floor as he tries to find something to hold onto, but then the world suddenly turns into a tilt-a-whirl, and for a few nauseating seconds he doesn't know what's up and what's down.

When gravity starts behaving again One has pulled him in again and positioned him on the floor between his feet. Clint's back is pressed into the metal bed frame, and One's legs bracket him claustrophobically. He squeezes his eyes tightly shut when fingers start running through the hair at his ear and continue up towards his temple. He knows what's coming. 

"You’re all sweaty, baby."

The gentleness is a sickening contrast to what One is about to do, and Clint wants out, he wants to go home. Please. Coulson. Natasha. _Someone_. 

"Don't worry. I'll take care of you. I'll take _real_ good care of you." One's arm comes around from behind and Clint twists, but he's got nothing left and One has no problem whatsoever to keep his grip. "Shh," he soothes as Clint struggles. His arm slides up and starts tightening over Clint's throat again. "It's okay. You’re okay."

No. Clint is not okay, not at all okay, because there's horrible pressure across his throat. More. And more. He tries to find leverage against the floor, tries to break the grip, but his body is heavy and weak, and the air he is allowed now isn't enough, isn't near enough. His lungs start to burn with the need for Oxygen. Stop. Stopstopstop. He digs his fingers into a trigger point at the crook of One's arm, but he can't even get that right, and a fractured, gurgling noise is squeezed out of him as the arm tightens further. One forces his head backwards. All he sees is the stained ceiling. Sparks start to fire up in front of his eyes like sickly fireflies, and he can’t breathe he needs to breathe breathe breathe he needs to breathe. He claws at the arm around his throat, grabs for One behind him, but his clumsy fingers close on nothing.

One's breath is warm and steady against Clint's ear. "Stop fighting," he says, but it's like telling fire not to burn.

Strange halos form around the lights in the ceiling. Gray nothingness starts eating away at Clint's vision, and little by little his limbs go heavy and wooden. 

He's skimming the surface of true unconsciousness when One finally lets up on the pressure and Clint is allowed air again. He sucks it down, wheezing and sobbing, and for a few seconds he's so grateful, so fucking grateful, but it soon disintegrates into despair, because he knows that the end of this just means he'll be told to get crawling again, means it all starts again. But this time One doesn't let go. He keeps the arm loosely across Clint's throat for an eternity, lets him catch his breath a little, then he starts tightening the arm again. Slowly. Relentlessly. No. It's not fair, Clint is playing along, they can't change the rules like this. He's supposed to be released and told to crawl across the floor. He's supposed to get some rest. They can't change the rules. They _can't_.

But of course they can. One applies more horrible pressure. Clint's body feels numb and heavy and broken, but the need to breathe is hard-wired, impossible to override, and he tries so hard. It doesn't make one bit of difference and again his air is cut off and he's brought skillfully to the very edge of unconsciousness. Once again he's pulled back at the last moment and allowed a few, all too insufficient breaths. His head is filling with crackling static that grows and grows, and when the arm across his throat starts tightening a third time, he barely manages to get his hands up to grab for it. One is warm like a furnace behind him and Clint's limbs are moving slowly, jerking in fits and starts. Dimly he realizes that the game might be over. He will die here, at the hands of two sadists who aren't even settling a score or trying to get information from him.

He will die because they are bored.

But he doesn't die. He emerges from the darkness he hadn't even realized he'd sunk into with a gasp that morphs into a raspy, violent cough. He'scurled up on the cold ground and chokes on the huge gulps of air his lungs demand. He's been without air for so long it feels like his body has forgotten how to breathe. He wraps his hands and arms around his head and neck, protecting, covering, hiding. His brain pounds with an agonizing beat that seems to spread through his body until he's shaking from it. He's cold, so cold his teeth are chattering, and for a moment he's cut up and sick and alone, holed up in a chilled-out house in mid-February, waiting for an extraction that never showed. 

“Come here,” Two says, and the safehouse vanishes. Clint is back by One's boots.

He curls up tighter. He can't. 

"Come. Here." 

One nudges Clint with his boot. “Move, or I’ll do it again, right now, and I don’t think you want that."

Clint knows he makes a wet sound of despair. He doesn’t want to cross the cold floor again, desperately doesn't want to, but somehow he manages to get to his hands and knees. The ground moves in sickly waves under him. 

“Know what,” One says and pats Clint’s shoulder amicably. “You've been so good, I think you’ve earned walking privileges.” He slips an arm under Clint’s and helps him up. His ankle refuses to support him, and One has to catch him to keep him from falling over. He keeps Clint upright until he can stay upright on his own, then dusts him off and turns him towards his companion. Two is still on the other side of the room, leaning against the wall.

Two beckons Clint over with his finger. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.”

The room wavers in front of him. The floor looks five miles across. Clint wishes it was. 

One gives him a gentle push in the back and Clint stumbles forward. The sharp pain in his ankle almost drives him to the floor again, but somehow he manages to keep on his feet. One agonizing step. One more. One more. He’s halfway when dizziness turns into vertigo and the floor tilts sharply. His knees hit the ground again. The room around him feels distant. _He_ feels strangely distant, removed, while still somehow acutely here in this awful moment. 

His tormentors wait in silence for him to get up. He makes it on the third attempt. Barely. Again Clint stops just outside of reach, and again he’s told to move closer. Apparently he's too slow, because Two grabs him and pulls him in, bounces his face off the wall. Clint's legs buckle and he slides to the floor again, tasting blood. He almost welcomes it, because pain is something he's well acquainted with. The pretense of gentleness that One pours over him is a foreign and frightening thing.

“Get up.”

Clint puts his hand against the wall for balance, but slips and goes down again. Two drags him up by his hair, then digs painfully strong fingers dig in under Clint's jaw and backs him straight into the wall. Two looks down at him. He's almost as tall as Thor.

"Put you hands down," Two tells him, and Clint realizes he's trying to dislodge the grip. 

Clint drops his hands. Disobeying has a steep price. He knows countless ways of breaking free of a hold like this, but he has no chance in hell in succeeding with such an attempt at this point. Last time he tried and failed, Two had shown Clint just how little he appreciated it. The rope that he'd wrapped around Clint's neck still lies by his feet. 

Two leans in. "What should we do next?”

Clint’s brain stalls out when the fingers suddenly tighten. Two gives him a shake. "I’m being magnanimous here. What should we do next?" Clint doesn't answer. "Okay. I’ll make it easy on you and give you a choice. You can either go to my good friend over there and let him take care of you again, or you can stay with me and let me re-introduce you to that rope."

Clint knows what they're doing.  _Let_  Two use the rope, or _let_ One choke him out. He's about to become an active participant in this.

"Better pick,” One tells him from across the room. "Or you’ll get both, plus something else. Something new and exciting."

"Last chance."

"Him," Clint manages to get out, his voice just a scratchy wheeze. He chooses One, because not the rope, no, it's-- it's-- No.  

Two releases him. "Off you go. Knees."

Clint feels hot wetness run down his face and drip onto the ground as he makes his slow and clumsy way towards the torture of his very own choice.

Play the game. Stay alive. They'll find him and get him out of here. They have to. 

Far too soon he reaches One who reaches over and pulls him in. There's nothing of Two's violence in what he does, he just settles Clint on the floor in front of him. Clint squeezes his eyes shut as One wipes at his face with the flat of his palm. The arm comes around again, and Clint doesn't know he manages it, he can barely lift his hands, but somehow he manages to twist and struggle enough that the bruising pressure eases up a fraction. It's  a cruel, one-second flare of hope that’s extinguished when One reclaims the grip without difficulty. As Clint's air is once again cut off, the analytical part of his brain that's still clinging to existence tells him it’s probably what One had in mind all along. Give him just a hint of hope that he can escape, then snuff it out.

Without warning One stands up. He doesn't let go, simply drags Clint with him. Clint hangs from the punishing grip around his neck, scrabbling to get his feet under himself, but for a few horrible seconds his own body weight is added to the pressure. Somehow he manages to get up, but then One leans backwards and Clint's back arches painfully. He loses the last semblance of balance and topples sideways. This time he knows, he just _knows_ he won't get up.

He claws at One with hands and fingers that obey him less and less with every second. Emptiness starts pushing at the edges of his vision again, and his ears are filling with the noise of a thousand hornets. One shifts the way he’s distributing the pressure, targets the carotid arteries rather than just the airways, and Clint has time to feel a twisted kind of relief.

Then he just... goes away. 

* * *

Light.

Shadows.

Odd edges and angles.

Clint gasps and coughs, tries to suck in as much air as he can. He doesn't know what’s going on, just that everything is _wrong_. His breath hitches and stalls and panic rises. His body feels alien, twitches erratically against the floor. It doesn't feel like his own. Air. God, he needs more air, he needs to breathe, to run, to, to, to- he doesn’t know, but he has to do something.

His aching lungs finally allows him another breath, then another, and slowly the ringing in his head recedes a little. It takes a while to realize he hears someone talking. The voice is distorted, far away. Then suddenly it's close, and Clint tries to curl away from it. Don't. Please, don't. He sees blurry movement, but he can't make out what it is. Then someone leans close, but Clint's eyes still won't focus right and he cracks his head against the floor in his flailing attempt to get away. He doesn't get far before hands are on him, holding him in place. The proximity is suffocating, he can’t breathe, he feels like he’s-  feels like-

“Easy.” A hand cradles the back of his aching head. 

The room suddenly spins around Clint. He fumbles for something to anchor him, because it feels like he’s falling off the floor. A warm hand wraps around his just as the nausea rises in his stomach again. It's massive and merciless, and this time Clint has no say in the matter, the only thing he can do is turn his head as he throws up. Someone helps him to his side, holds him steady until he's done. It's mostly water, but it hurts, it hurts so bad coming up, like his throat is being sliced by razor blades. 

There's a hand on his shoulder, just resting lightly. Warm. 

"Phil?" His voice is barely there. 

"It's okay. You're alright."

Clint is carefully guided from his side onto his back, then rolled over onto his other side, well clear of the mess he made on the floor. "It's okay. You can rest, now." He distantly feels his limbs being arranged into something that resembles the recovery position. A hand runs over his forehead, wipes the sick cold sweat away.

"We wouldn’t want you too tired for our next play date."


	2. Chapter 2

Seven grams of an explosive compound that doesn’t officially exist and the lock is no more. In the greenish light of her night-vision goggles, Natasha watches the point man kick the door wide open and get out of the way. Another agent goes low, goes down to one knee to the right of the door. He sticks his head in and scans the corridor, weapon at his shoulder, ready to take out anything that moves.

"Clear," he calls and motions the Strike team forward.

They file by her, not bothering to keep their movements silent. Breaching a door with a shaped charge makes stealth a moot point. Natasha stays at the back of the pack, doesn't interfere. She's not officially here, her presence is a courtesy.

The corridor is lined with heavy, reinforced doors, some open, some closed, some locked. The team splits up, one small group staying in the corridor, the other continuing forward. Singer shrugs his pack off by the first locked door. She pulls her goggles off as he turns his flashlight on and puts it on the floor by his boots. The low angle of light throws long, black shadows after the team that's moving away.

She glances back the way they came. Two agents are already crouched by the door they blasted through, covering the blind corner beyond it. She knows she doesn't really have to check, the teams are well trained, but it's ingrained habit to watch her back.

Singer and the guy whose name she's never bothered to learn set the small charges. They work quickly and silently in the near darkness. Gunshots and shouting are heard from deeper into the compound, but it's not close, not an immediate threat.     

"Ready?" Singer asks.  

Natasha nods.  

"Fire in the hole!" he shouts and the call is daisy-chained down the hallway. Natasha puts her hands over her ears.

Boom. Room one is empty.

Boom. Room two is empty.

Boom. Room three isn’t.

"Asset located," Singer says into his comm.

Natasha waits until Singer has secured the room, made sure there are no hostiles in there, but the moment he gives the all clear signal, she's inside. The room is dark, the light on the barrel of Singer's assault rifle is all there is in there. He is already kneeling next to Clint who is curled up on the floor by the far wall. He isn't moving. Singer pulls one glove off with his teeth and puts his fingers against Clint’s neck. Clint flinches into life with a fractured, ragged sound, and Natasha is on the floor next to Singer so fast she skins her knees.

Clint's arms are raised in front of his face in defense. His breath hitches and wheezes. Singer gets to his feet without a word and takes up a position by the door, a silent, unmovable sentinel. 

Natasha counts slowly to five.

"Barton?"

At first there’s no recognition in his eyes as he stares up at her from behind his arms. Then he blinks, and he's there, Clint is there.

"Natasha?" he rasps. He lowers his arms stiffly.

Her smile feels forced. "That's my name. Don't wear it out." It's an old thing between them, a poke at the purposely awful jokes Clint tells her all the time. This time he doesn’t smile. 

Someone must have found a light switch outside, because suddenly the room is bathing in light. Clint winces. Natasha bites down on the curse that rises to her lips, because there's blood in the whites of his eyes, and the skin under them is a dull ruddy color. Marks around his throat. Scratches on his face and neck.

She knows what this is. 

Clint draws a wobbly breath and lets his head fall back to the floor. An bluish red ligature mark snakes around his neck, high under his jaw, and the tightness in Natasha coils into something hard and dangerous. Anyone in this goddamn building who isn't wearing SHIELD black is going to die if she gets her hands on them. Fury can go fuck himself if he has a problem with it.

But that's going to have to wait, her anger is of no use in here, of no use to Clint. She starts cataloguing the rest of his visible injuries. What she can see is minor, but she knows appearances can be deceiving. Scrapes, bruises, a split lip, and there are signs of a recent nose bleed. It must have been bleeding while he was lying down, because a drying trail runs from his nose to his ear and disappears into his hair. Clint starts to say something, but his voice breaks and he starts coughing drily. It apparently hurts, because he makes a thin sound of pain.

Then there's noise in the corridor outside, running and voices. Singer doesn't move, which means it's friendlies. The medics. But Clint makes a strangled noise and starts struggling to get his hands and knees under himself.  

"Clint—" She puts his hand on his arm, but he recoils from her, backs right into the wall.

"No, I don’t want— I don’t—"  

"It’s just the medics, Barton," she reassures him. "They’ll take care of you."

He goes small and scared in front of her. "No," he moans.

Natasha’s stomach clenches. "Clint—"  

"No. I’ll move, I’ll— Please, I’ll do it." His teeth have started chattering. 

"Singer," she says over her shoulder, and it's all she has to say. A second later loud protests are heard from the approaching medics, which means he has placed his six-foot six self in their path.

"I think we need to give Agent Barton a little space here, ladies and gentlemen." 

Natasha sits back on her heels, places her hands flat on her thighs. Neutral. Non-threatening.

"Clint. They're not going to hurt you. I won’t let them."

He holds himself still, head low, frozen on his hands and knees. She can see the muscles in his arms trembling.  

"You're safe."

Nothing. 

"Come on, Barton," she coaxes gently. "Olly olly oxen free."

It takes about ten seconds, then she sees the first signs that he’s coming back to himself. It’s a minute change in the lines of his shoulders, in the way he holds his head. His breathing slows a little. The trembling doesn’t stop, but it diminishes. When he pushes back to sit on his heels, hunched over, hands still flat on the floor, she knows he’s back. Partially, at least. 

"I don’t wanna crawl anymore," he mumbles thickly. He doesn’t lift his head. "Natasha. I don’t wanna."

"No one here will make you crawl. I swear." The anger inside is so cold it burns. "Anyone who tries will regret it until they die. Which will be about three seconds later." 

She helps him sit back up and steadies him when he starts listing. He leans heavily against her side. 

They sit in silence on the cold floor. Clint’s scratchy breath shudders every now and again, but some of the tension is bleeding out of him. Natasha glances down when Clint turns his face into her Strike jacket, and she gets a close-up look at the rope burn on his neck.

"Tired," he mumbles. 

She rests her chin on the top of his head. "I know."   

She does. She's been where he is. 

There’s a rustle heard from the  door, and Natasha looks up. Singer has taken up his position in the doorway again. He’s looking as grim as she feels. Clint must have heard him, too, because he lifts his head. He blinks like the light is bothering him, and then his eyes settle on Singer. Natasha is not surprised at seeing agent Barton slide in. It’s not the smooth, seamless transition she’s used to, and it’s a pretty pathetic agent that shows up, but for now the Clint only she gets to see is gone.

"Hey there, Big Ugly," Agent-Clint rasps out. He sits up a fraction, doesn't lean quite as much on her.     

Singer huffs. "Please, I’m prettier than you will ever be."

Natasha shakes her head sadly. "Delusional."

"Your vote doesn’t count, Romanoff. You’re desensitized from prolonged exposure." Singer rests his forearm casually against the weapon slung across his front. Then something apparently happens on the comms, because his eyes flit to the side and he goes distant the way people do when listening to something. He gives an acknowledgment, then turns back to them.

"Don’t know about you kids, but I’m pretty damn done with this dump. You ready to hit the road?"

Natasha hears Clint snort at 'kids', but it apparently hurts, because he winces. Then winces when the wince hurts. His hand comes up to his throat.

Natasha gets to her feet. "Will you let them look you over before we head out? You know how twitchy they get if they don’t get their daily dose of poking and prodding."

Clint closes his eyes. He clears his throat. "Yeah, sure."     

Singer says something over his shoulder and a second later three medics are on the doorstep. Natasha watches Singer catch one of them by the arm and pull him over a little. It’s a young man, a rookie by the looks of it, and he seems suitably intimidated by being shanghaied by 220 pounds of heavily armed muscle, all kitted out in black Strike gear. Singer leans in, and Natasha suspects he’s imparting a short but important list of dos and don’ts when treating an injured field agent who has been subjected to god knows what, and who knows how to kill a person seventeen ways with his bare hands.

Not that she thinks that Clint will lash out, he doesn’t seem to be in that head space. And they’ve never counted, but she’s pretty sure Clint knows more than seventeen ways.

Natasha takes a spot at the wall and lets them work. The team leader swings her pack off her shoulder and kneels in front of Clint. She introduces herself as Carson, and Natasha watches her eyes flit over the bleeding in his eyes and the mark on his neck. They're hard to miss. In the next breath Carson orders the kid closer and instructs him to immobilize Clint's head. Natasha hadn't thought of neck injuries. There hadn't been anyone to tend to her who knew a damn about things like that. 

"I'm fine," Clint mumbles. "No broken neck. Promise."

"Humor me," Carson says. "Breathing feels okay?"

"Yeah."

She turns and takes the neck brace her colleague hands her. She shows it to Clint. "You gonna be okay if I put this on?"

Clint tries to nod, but the kid's hold prevents much movement. The newbie looks so nervous that in another situation it would have been amusing. "Yeah. I'm good."   

He isn't.

The moment Carson starts securing the brace around his neck, Natasha sees his stress levels go through the roof. She’s pushing away from the wall before she even realizes it. Singer is moving closer as well. Probably to haul Carson and the kid out of the way should it become necessary. Even if Clint doesn't resort to violence, a panicked escape attempt might result in collateral damage.

Carson apparently picks up on Clint’s distress, too, because she stops in mid-motion. "You okay?"  

"No," he says hoarsely. His breath has has gone harsh and wheezing again. His nails make a dry sound against the floor as he curls his hands into fists. Natasha sees his eyes flicker in her direction.

"Okay. Okay. Agent Barton, it's okay," Carson says as she efficiently undoes the Velcro strap she fastened, then lifts her hands where he can see them.

Smart woman. 

"Deep breath. Take a deep breath. I'm not going to do anything." Carson sits back on her heels.

It takes a while, but Clint finally manages to relax a little and Natasha returns to her wall. 

"I understand that this isn't something you want to do right now, but it's important." Carson's voice is calm and reasonable. "You could have a neck injury, and you might not even know it at this point."

"I don't."

"Like I said, you might not even know it."

"There's nothing wrong with my neck," he insists hoarsely. His voice is still tight, but his breathing has left hyperventilation territory.   

"How about head straps? Nothing around the neck." She points at the gurney by the door. "I'm thinking those orange things. They go on the sides of your head, and—"

"Doc, I know what they are and where they go."

"Okay." She waits a beat. "So? Go or no go?"

Clint reluctantly agrees to being strapped down on the spine board, and Natasha breathes a sigh of relief. At least she doesn't have to worry about a paraplegic Clint. There are plenty of other things to worry about right now, but that's a big one, and she's happy to put it to rest. He gets an IV catheter in his hand. Carson beckons Natasha over and tells her to hold the bag.

More questions are fired at Clint as they work around him. Breathing still okay? Yeah. Any difficulty swallowing? A little. Hurts. Carson shines a light down his throat. Any coughing? Yes. Did you lose consciousness at any time? Yes. More than once? Yes. How many times? Don’t know. For how long? Don’t know. Clint's eyes keep returning to Natasha. 

Eventually, they wrap things up and lift him onto the gurney. They haven’t gotten more than a few steps down the corridor when he makes a choked noise.

"Sick," he groans. "Gonna be sick."

The medics move immediately. Natasha feels desperately useless as she stands back and watches them log roll her partner to his side as he vomits. Clint moans pitifully when they roll him back. Carson lets him catch his breath.

"Let me know when you're okay to continue. Take your time."

Clint squeezes his eyes shut. "Can you check back in June, Doc?"

Carson adjusts the straps of the head brace. "July okay? I’m getting married in June and I’d rather not have to take a day out of the preps or my Hawaiian honey moon to return to this god-forsaken place."

"No can do. Washing my hair in July." He's starting to sound distant and Natasha suspects there’s some kind of light sedative in the drip. She hopes there is.

"Bummer. Okay, my final offer is…" Carson checks her watch. "Three minutes. How does that sound?"

"Not as good as June," he mumbles. 

Carson just pats his arm and three minutes later, on the dot, they get moving again.

It's a long, silent flight. Clint sleeps most of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bleeding in the eyes can be a sign of strangulation, and it can look very gruesome.
> 
> https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Subconjunctival_hemorrhage_before_after.jpg  
>   
> http://www.bluesheepdog.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/11/petechiae02.jpeg
> 
> It can be caused by other things as well, like extreme coughing. When I was young my little brother got pneumonia that went untreated for a quite a while because of incompetent doctors who insisted he just had a cold. He coughed so hard the blood vessels in his eyes burst and every little part of the white of his eyes was blood red. Solid red, not just bloodshot. It looked very creepy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am desperately unhappy with this chapter, so I will probably do some pretty serious editing at some point

Phil waits patiently as the doctors caution Clint about possible delayed reactions and reluctantly hand over the discharge papers for him to sign. It's been less than 36 hours since he was brought in, but Clint has apparently had all he can take of Medical this time around, and even though Phil would prefer that he stay another day, he is not going to order Clint to stay put.

Clint is quiet during the ride to the tower, looking out the side window with his elbow propped up against the door, cheek resting against his hand. He looks exhausted, but his knee bounces restlessly. He told Phil he hadn’t gotten much sleep during the two days leading up to his extraction, and he rarely sleeps well in Medical, so Phil knows the jittery energy is just his brain over-clocking his body out of sheer fatigue.

They’re welcomed back by JARVIS, who informs them that the upper part of the elevator shaft is under maintenance, and that they will have to transfer to the south elevator at the common floor. Clint leans his back against the one mirrored wall of the elevator like it's the only thing keeping him upright. Phil wonders if he chose the spot on purpose, if he doesn't want be reminded of the state of his eyes. Clint's eyesight is unaffected, and Phil knows it doesn't hurt, but he also knows Clint is deeply disturbed by by the solid red in the whites of his eyes. The doctors had assured him that no long-term damage had been done and that it would clear up in a week or so, but Phil can sympathize. It looks pretty gruesome. He glances over at Clint and sees gaze stuck on the floor level display. He stares blankly at the numbers that flicker by, and at this point Phil doesn’t know if he’s actually processing what he sees.

The subdued ding when they reach the common floor seems to rouse Clint a little, because he blinks and shakes his head before shuffling out of the elevator. He's favoring his ankle. Phil is not surprised, the dark bruising that has slowly spread down the side of Clint's foot is spectacular. 

“Almost there. Thank god," Clint mumbles. "I'm gonna marry my bed, Coulson. Seriously. I’m gonna make an honest woman out of her.”  

Stark wanders in, a Stark pad in one hand, a bottle of Windex in the other. "Did you bring food?” he asks without taking his eyes off the tablet.

Clint drops his bag on the floor by his boots and looks confused. “Was I supposed to?”

Stark sighs sadly. “No one ever brings food.” He glances up and does a double take. “Holy fuck.” He moves in close and peers at Clint's eyes. “You look like an extra from 'Thriller'." Then his expression turns into one of horror, and Phil knows he just spotted the dark rope burns and bruises around his neck. "Shit, Barton.” Stark reaches out to touch, but stops. “What the hell happened to you?"

Clint shrugs and shifts a little. The casual movement puts some space between himself and Stark. “The raw power of my animal attraction makes the ladies go crazy."     

Stark looks sick. "Yeah. Full frontal crazy from the looks of it. You okay?”

“Fine, just tired as hell.”

Stark looks doubtful. "Do me a favor, Barton, let me know if I ever come within a few hundred feet of your ‘ladies’." His eyes go hard. "Seriously. Let me know, okay?"

Clint's lips quirk. "Aw, you gonna defend my honor?"

Stark crosses his arms haughtily. "Please. My armor may be shiny, but Lancelot I'm not. The weapons. Dear god. I wouldn't be caught dead wielding something that medieval. No offense."

"None taken." Clint picks up his bag. It looks like it weighs ten times as much as Phil knows it does. “See ya in a few days. I’m gonna go hibernate.”

*   *   *

"You should eat something."

"I know. I will." Clint leans back tiredly against his kitchen counter, but makes no move to get something from the fridge or any of his cabinets. He closes his eyes and tilts his head right with a grimace, then left. “Have you heard from Natasha?”  

Phil digs through his fridge, finds an unopened carton of orange juice and pours a glass. He has to nudge Clint’s shoulder with the glass to make him open his eyes and take it. “She applied for leave. I approved it.”

Clint drains the glass in one go. “You know where she went?”   

“I think she is still in town, but other than that I don’t know.” Phil takes the glass and rinses it before putting it in the sink. "Do you need anything?"

Clint scrubs his hands over his face and up over his hair. "Sleep," he sighs.

"Other than that? Painkillers?"

"Nah, I'm all set."

He pushes away from the kitchen counter and Phil takes that as his cue to leave. Clint looked tired before, but now that he’s in his own space he looks like he’s about to drop on the spot. Phil shows Clint the folder he brought from the car. "I figured you might want to read this later. It's what we have on your hosts. It's not much, but we are working on it."

Clint nods, but doesn’t reach for the folder, so Phil puts it on the table. It’s thin. Everything they know about the people who took him covers less than two pages, double spaced. They haven’t been able to find out the specific identities of the two individuals who had spent quality time with Clint at the end, either. But they have a few solid leads.

"Thanks.” Clint trails him through the large living room but walks no further than the couch. He slumps down, lets his head fall back against the backrest and closes his eyes. “And thanks for the ride."  

"You’re welcome. You have the usual stand-down days to catch up on your sleep. Report back to Medical on Wednesday, then come by my office."

Clint sketches a sloppy salute without opening his eyes. "Yes, Sir."

"Wednesday, Barton," Phil repeats a little firmer, because he suspects that without major physical injuries it will take Clint about forty-eight hours to recover enough to get bored and antsy and show up at Shield. If nothing else than to pester Phil. He opens the door and looks over his shoulder. "Oh, and Clint?"

"Mmm?"

Phil watches him slide down onto his side on the couch. "Sleep in your actual bed. Not on the couch."

"Roger, wilco, over and out." Clint doesn't move an inch.

Right. Phil sighs and heads back. "Get your ass off that couch, Barton,” he says. 

Clint moans plaintively. "But _mom_ , it's super comfy."

"I'm sure, but do you really think it's appropriate for you to sleep with another piece of furniture this close to the wedding. Your bride-to-be might take offense."

Clint cracks one bleary eye open. "Huh?"

Phil slides an arm under Clint's and drags him up with a grunt. "Never mind. Come on, Agent. Up, up, up."

Clint grumbles and grouses, but actually walks under his own steam to his bedroom. He stops by the bed, stares at it for a moment, then falls face first into it. 

"Boots," Phil says.

"Boots can go fuck himself," Clint informs him gravely and turns his face into the pillow.   

" _Your_ boots," Phil clarifies with a small smile. "You're still wearing them."

"Well, they can go fuck themselves, too." His voice is muffled from the pillow.

Phil almost smiles as he sits down by the foot end of the bed. He taps Clint's calf. "Turn over."

Clint groans, but rolls over. Phil doesn't get a chance to liberate him from his boots, because Clint sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He unlaces them with clumsy fingers before tossing them across the room. He flops down on his back. "There. Boot-free.” He closes his eyes. “Happy?"

"Deliriously," Phil says drily and gets to his feet. He isn’t going to fight Clint on his clothes. He’ll wake in a few hours and get out of them all on his own. He's almost at the door when Clint speaks.

”Coulson?”

Phil turns and scans him for signs of distress, for some unspoken plea to not be left alone. With Clint it's all about reading between the lines. “Do you need something?”

Clint's lips quirk tiredly. "You put me to bed, aren't you gonna read me a bed-time story?"

Phil relaxes and rolls his eyes with an amused huff. "If you want."

"I want.”

"Okay. How about this one." Phil walks back to the bed, pulls the blanket over him and smooths it down. Clint closes his eyes and curls up. "Once upon a time there was an Agent who always got himself into trouble. Then he went to sleep. The end."

"I like the last part," Clint mumbles. 

He is snoring softly by the time Phil has collected the boots and the bag and stowed them out of the way against the far wall. 

*   *   *

Phil pinches the bridge of his nose when the elevator doesn’t travel to the garage as he had requested, but instead stops at the common floor again. The headache that’s been building behind his eyes for the past couple of hours gets louder.

“Jesus, Coulson! What the hell happened?"

Phil presses the button for the garage again, but Stark slaps his palm against the doors and stops them from closing.

“Oh, no, you don’t.”

Phil sighs. "You know I can't give any details about a Shield operation, Stark."

"Yeah, I know that, but—" Stark waves his hand upwards, presumably towards Clint’s floor. "That looked like he almost didn't make it home."

Phil meets his eyes straight on. Stark is terrifyingly correct in that assessment. “It is an unfortunate risk, and one they take every single time they head out."

Stark stares at him for a moment like the words don’t make sense to him, then shakes his head with a cold snort. "You know, every now and again it would be nice to see that you're actually human. Like, maybe you could give a hint of concern for your people. For the ones who risk their lives for you again and again and again."  

Phil narrows his eyes and takes a small step closer. "Are you questioning my commitment to my agents?" he asks quietly. Stark blinks and for a split second looks like he wants to back away, but then it’s gone and Phil sees him mentally dig his heels in.

"He knows the risks," Natasha suddenly says behind Stark, and he startles badly.

"Jesus Christ!" Stark puts his hand over his chest. Phil suspects he’s grateful for the interruption, because it gives him an excuse to move away from Phil without it looking like he’s backing down. "I distinctly remember getting you a bell to wear."

"And I distinctly remember telling you where to shove it."

"JARVIS, order Ms. Ninja a box of two hundred cat bells."

"Right away, Sir."

She gives Stark a blithe smile. "Leave them in my bed again and I will tie every single one to your balls with razor wire."

"Uh, JARVIS, belay that order."   

"Yes, Sir. Wise choice, if I may say so."

"He accepts the risks," Natasha repeats. "And he'll be fine. He's tough."

"I know he's tough, that’s not my point! He's tougher than tough, he's fucking bedrock—"

"Then what is your point?" she asks coolly, and Phil can see a hint of something dangerous in her eyes. Stark has pissed her off by questioning him.

Stark starts to say something, but then he too must pick up on something in Natasha, because he closes his mouth. Good choice, Phil thinks, because he’s skating on _very_ thin ice here. Stark glares at them both, then spins on his heel and stalks away, cursing fucking Shield and every fucking covert spy organization in the whole fucking universe.  

Natasha steps into the elevator with Phil.

“Would it be possible to get to the garage this time, JARVIS?” Phil asks mildly as the doors slide shut.

“Of course, Agent Coulson. I apologize for the inconvenience. Sir requested that you pay the common floor a visit on your way out.”

"How is he?" she asks as the elevator starts moving.

"As well can be expected, I suppose. Tired. Sore. How’s your vacation coming along?”   

Natasha folds her hands in front of her. “I really feel like traveling, but I can’t make up my mind where to go.” Out of the corner of his eye he sees her tilt her head minutely in his direction. “Any suggestions?”

Phil thinks of what Clint had reported, how his voice had gone tight and brittle when he'd told them it had all been for laughs, for fun. How they'd done it to him again and again. They reach the garage and the doors open smoothly. He steps out. Natasha doesn’t.

“I hear the weather is nice in Brazil this time of year," he tells her. "Perhaps Curitiba could be something for you.”

She nods slowly. “Sounds interesting. I’ll look into that. Thanks.”

“Keep in mind the weather reports might be unreliable.”

“Aren’t they always?” Her face turns pensive for a moment. “I’m thinking I should get Barton something. A souvenir of some kind.”

“He’d probably appreciate a nice bottle of Cachaça.”  

There’s a cold little tilt to her lips as she presses the elevator button. "Not exactly what I had in mind."

*   *   *

The men who tortured Clint that night are never found.

Not by Shield, anyway.

*   *   *

Range and gym, check. Alcohol, check. Casual sex, check. Clint’s choice of coping behavior is harmless in light of what some agents indulge in, so Phil doesn’t interfere. He knows Natasha keeps an eye on him, too, and will kick the crap out of him if she suspects things are getting out of hand.

Clint is assigned to the team that does tactical postmortems on ops that went seriously sideways. He's not happy about being sidelined. He's not happy about much, period. He and Natasha spar a lot. They've never been in the habit of play fighting when they go at it, but now Phil sees that Natasha holds back even less than she usually does, and since they’re pretty evenly matched it forces Clint to go all out, too. It lets him work a lot of frustration and anger out of his system. TLC Romanoff style.

Weeks tick by, six, seven, eight, nine, and Phil is glad to see Clint even out. He starts sleeping better, stops scaring newbies with his moody behavior and slips back into his usual easygoing self. One thing lingers, though. He plays with the collar of his shirt a lot, runs his fingers under it like it’s uncomfortable against his skin. He doesn’t zip his jacket up all the way. Doesn’t keep his earbuds hanging around his neck like he usually does when he comes from the gym. It's probably nothing to be concerned about, but Phil talks to the psych team about it, and is told to just keep an eye on it and not worry unless it escalates. It doesn’t and Phil eventually puts him back in the field.

*   *   *

Clint gets properly back into the swing of things. Most of the compulsive fiddling with anything around or near his neck stops. He is part of taking down a large-scale drug operation in Bergen, Norway. He goes to Laos and has to temp as a pilot when the assigned one takes a bullet in mid-flight over a hot zone. The hydraulics are shot to hell, but it’s a good landing. In the sense that they walk away from it. Wade away, rather, because they land in the middle of a remote mangrove area in northern Thailand. When they are picked up all of them are covered with mosquito bites and leaches, and Clint is decidedly unimpressed with life. A month later he comes back from a training exercise with his left boot nowhere to be seen. He hobbles into Medical with his arm over Christie’s shoulder for support. There’s a blood-soaked field dressing around his foot, but he's grinning. Christie gleefully shows Phil what brought down the mighty Hawkeye. A rusty nail. Clint's grin turns into groans when he realizes he’s going to need a tetanus booster shot. 

All is good. Between ops and minor injuries Clint helps out with hand-to-hand combat training. He’s a good teacher, Phil has always known that. He builds confidence in those who need it, and cheerfully beats the arrogance out of those who come in thinking they know what it's all about. During a training session months down the line, one of the juniors manages to get his arm around his throat.

Clint almost kills the kid.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started writing this story I planned for it to be a four-chapter thing, but I should have known better than to think I could control my muses. At least one, possibly two chapters still to go.

Over the next week Clint slides backwards so fast he’s surprised he doesn’t fall on his ass, and he's angry, so damn angry. With the world for never getting tired of pouring crap on his head, with himself for not managing to get a handle on this latest batch of said crap. He knows it's a textbook reaction, he _knows_ that, Shield makes their agents sit through classes on stress and depression and trauma reactions on an annual basis, but he can't help feel that he's better than that, that he should be past it by now.

It’s past nine in the evening and the rain is beating against the windows like it wants to come inside when there’s a knock on his door. Clint opens and finds a thoroughly drenched Natasha on his doorstep.

She hands him a white plastic bag. "Roughed up any rookies lately?”

Clint rolls his eyes. Sensitivity, thy name is Romanoff.

She sidles past him and shakes her head like a wet dog. Droplets fly everywhere. “It’s raining,” she tells him, like it’s not the most obvious thing in the world.  

He peers into the bag and a whiff of food hits him. She pushes past him in the narrow hallway and detours to the small linen closet by the bathroom door to grab a towel before heading to the kitchen. He hasn’t seen her in almost three weeks, and he notes the tan.

"Poolside job?"

"Yacht, actually. Monaco. It was boring."

"You poor, poor thing. It must have been absolutely miserable."      

She shrugs out of her dripping jacket and hangs it over the back of a chair. “How do you feel about it?”

"About you getting nothing but cush jobs while I have to schlepp around here? I feel like Cinderella."

The kitchen fills with the smell of food as she unpacks the bag. Egg drop soup and General Tso's chicken for him, Wonton soup and crab Rangoon for her.

"About Coulson grounding you again."

Clint sighs and licks his fingers clean of sweet, sticky sauce that has leaked. Would it be too much to ask to just eat some greasy Chinese food and watch B-movies and… just be.

"It was the right thing to do," he says, and hopes that will be the end of it.

“Yes,” she agrees readily. “But that’s not what I-”  

"Any fortune cookies in there?" he asks, interrupting her. 

She digs into the bag and hands him two cookies, wrapped in crinkling plastic. He reaches for them, but in he last moment she closes her fingers around them. He glares at her.

"Stop beating yourself up about it, Barton. This isn't like you."

"Playing shrink isn't like _you_." It's a childish comeback, but he doesn't care.

She watches him steadily for a few long seconds, then opens her hand and lets him have them. He tears one of them open, breaks the cookie in two and pulls out the little piece of paper. ' _Your lucky number is 8.'_

Natasha sits down across from him. "If you're hung up on Greene, he's fine." 

“I was about to kill him," he mutters. 

“Don’t be a drama queen. You broke his arm, not his spine.”

Clint tears the strip of paper in two, then again. It hadn’t taken security more than two minutes to arrive at the gym, and Clint had been escorted first to a windowless room that he knows is just a step above a holding cell, then a while later to another windowless room, this time in the psych facility. Medical staff had checked him over, done simple neurological tests and relieved him of about two-thirds of his blood volume to test for drugs and pathogens before leaving him alone in a third room. It had a soothing color scheme and absolutely nothing that could be used to do harm. To himself or to anyone else. He had been pretty sure the door hadn’t been locked. He had been equally sure that armed guards were stationed out there, somewhere near.  

The verdict when the initial rounds of assessments had finished later had been that Clint had not been hopped up on PCP, had not suffered a mental breakdown or a psychotic break, and further, no evidence had been found that he was of any danger to himself or the people around him (provided he refrained from asking people to put him in a headlock, Doctor Han had said wryly).

It had been – surprise, surprise – a flashback, a delayed stress-reaction with an unfortunate outcome. He had been released into Phil’s care, and the man had taken him home. And off active duty, effective immediately, duration TBD pending further assessments. 

Clint pulls the soup container closer and peels the lid off. “I could have killed him. So very, very easily."

"But you _didn't_." She sits down across from him. "Apologize. Make nice. Tell him what they did to you, why you reacted the way you did.” She nimbly fishes out one of her dumplings with her chop sticks and takes a bite. “Give him a reason to feel empathy towards you. It’s a great facilitator when it comes to forgiveness.”  

Clint knows that ‘calculating’ and ‘manipulative’ are words often spoken in the same sentence as 'Black Widow', and yeah, they are fitting. Natasha is both of those things. It’s who she is. Hell, it’s who _he_ is. They do that shit for a living, they predict and gauge and quantify actions and reactions in order to reach their objectives, and after this long it's not possible to completely leave it on the field, it colors everything they do.

“Coulson told me three of them dropped out of the program," she says between bites. 

He stares at her for a moment, then buries his face in his hands. “God," he groans."You always know just the right thing to say to make me feel better.”

“If they quit because they saw someone break an arm, they weren’t going to make it anyway.”

“You don’t know that. One of those three could have been the next…  I don’t know, Fury. Or Coulson. Or May.”

“Doubtful." She raps her chopsticks painfully across his knuckles when he goes to take one of her dumplings. “Hands off my puffs.”

“Shrew,” he mutters under his breath and shakes his hand out.

He sits back and starts in on his chicken. He tries real hard to not think about Greene, but now that his thoughts have been neatly lined up in that particular direction, it’s hard not to.

He has gone over the whole thing again and again in his head. He’d been the demonstration victim probably twenty times to show how to get out of a choke hold. He had paired off with the rookies when they were uneven numbers to let them practice both on getting a hold and how to get out of it. It had been fine. That particular time he’d told Greene to get to it, had offered his back to let the kid get a good grip. It had been fine. _Fine_. Then he’d felt the pressure over his throat and everything around him had gone sharp and loud and dissonant and his teacher mind had clocked out. He'd tumbled into a defensive spin that had ended with Green getting two fractures to his left arm, a pretty decent concussion and a face full of someone Clint doesn’t let out to play in polite company for a goddamn reason.

“It would have been so easy, I would just have had to…” He makes a small twist-snap motion with his hand. He stares at it for a moment then drops it in his lap.

Natasha just nods, but doesn’t pick up the thread, and he’s grateful, because that might mean she’s done with that particular subject for the time being. He’s under no illusions that it won’t come up again, but maybe he’s in the clear tonight.  

She tells him about the Monaco job. About the Tony Stark-wannabe who had a fraction of Stark's money and none of his brains, and who had been more than happy to act as a middle man (fall guy, really) for some very shady arms dealers in exchange for the opportunity to rub shoulders with the rich and beautiful in Monaco. She snorts when she tells him that she basically just had to bat her false lashes at the guy to get invited on-board his yacht for a few days. He had a thing for roughing his dates up, and now that she says it he can see a hint of bruising on her cheekbone under her makeup. She had torched said yacht when she left, just on principle, and Clint nods approvingly.

It’s comfortable and Clint relaxes further as they polish off their food.

“Wanna Netflix something?” he asks.

“If I get to choose,” she says and wipes her lips with the napkin.

“Knock yourself out. Just, no goddamn John Cusack, okay?” Clint gets to his feet with a groan, because god, the tension that seems to have taken up permanent residence in his back and shoulders over the past weeks is _painful_.  

“Want me to work out a few kinks?”

He looks up to find her watching him, gauging his level of discomfort, probably. He hesitates. Natasha’s massages are usually pleasant in the same way a knee to the kidneys is, but she gets tension out of his muscles like no one’s business, so maybe the pain will be worth it in the long run.

“Yeah, okay,” he finally decides. “That would be good.”

Even as he says the words, he regrets it, because suddenly his brain gives him a sense preview of her hands sliding over his shoulders, over his traps towards the nape of his neck. Sudden coldness blooms under his skin. Shit. It’s too late to back out now. He's got some pride, after all.    

“I’ll wait on the couch,” she says and leaves him in the kitchen with the cartons and napkins and spilled rice and bowls.

He swallows the dryness from his throat and rubs a hand down his arm. “You could offer to help clean up, you know,” he calls after her.

“Correct. I could.” The TV comes on.  

He rolls his eyes at the empty doorway and gets to cleaning up. By the time he is done he has managed to convince himself that a massage will be fine. First of all, it’s a _massage_. Second, it’s _Natasha_. It’s gonna be fine.  

He joins her in the small living room. “Where do you want me?”

Natasha points to the floor in front of the TV. Clint pushes the coffee table out of the way and gets down on his stomach. He refuses to groan, despite feeling like he’s approximately three hundred years old.  

She straddles his hips and pulls his t-shirt out of his jeans. He damn near gives a squeak when her hands touch the small of his back. “Would it kill you to warm your hands up a little?” He catches her wrists as she goes to slide her sub-zero digits in under him. “Natasha, I swear to God, I will toss you out on your scrawny ass if you even think about it. I am not your personal space heater.”

“But you're such a good one,” she whines, but pulls her wrists out of his grip. He hears her rub her hands together. "Get rid of the t-shirt," she tells him.  

He complies and she runs her only-slightly-warmer hands up along his back, then down again. Clint makes himself comfortable, cheek resting on his folded hands as she prods and presses at his lower back.

She makes a tsk’ing sound. “How much pain are you in?”

“It’s not so bad,” he starts to say, but just then her fingers finds a particularly sore spot and the sentence dies in a sharp inhalation of air. “Jesus,” he hisses as she goes to town on his muscles.

“Not so bad, huh?” She keeps finding new spots that protest very loudly at being disturbed.

‘Fuck’ quickly becomes his mantra, gritted out past clenched teeth. He’s pretty sure he hears her chuckle at some point. He can do this, he tells himself. It’s worth it, because when she’s satisfied with her torture session, her hands will slow down and her touch will go from ruthlessly utilitarian to something lighter and gentler that never fails to make Clint feel like he’s melting into the floor.

But right now that part seems to be far in the future. So very, very, very far.

“Shit,” he groans and clenches his hands into fists. “The way you're tenderizing me kinda gives me that feeling you're planning on throwing me on the grill and eating me.”

“Well, I _am_ a Black Widow." She must realize what kind of opening she just handed him, because she digs her fingers into his muscles just a little harder. "Don't say it," she warns.

He ignores her. “Black Widows eat their partners after mating. Does this mean there’s sex in my imminent fu-?”

She presses both thumbs into a pressure point, and oh, god, that’s pain on a completely different level. “I'm sorry," she says sweetly. "Does that hurt?"

"No, no,” he wheezes when he manages to speak, “I just sound like a wounded Chihuahua when I'm enjoying myself.”

She laughs evilly. Her strong fingers knead and press, and he reminds himself that this is what he needs. She starts with his lower back and methodically works through the muscles there. Clint knows she’s soon going to move further up, and he hates himself for the feeling of unease that grows under his skin as time passes.

She doesn’t touch his neck, just runs her hands lightly up over his traps every now and again, letting the linger for just a moment before going back to kneading the knots out of his back. The room goes quiet, save for the drone of the TV, and the muscles on his back must either have started to loosen up, or she has caused spinal damage, because they eventually stop crying bloody murder at each touch. Then Natasha runs her thumbs firmly up both sides of his spine, starting low and following the ridge up towards his shoulders, up, up, up, towards his neck, and shit, Clint tenses up, he can’t help it.

He knows there’s no way in hell she missed that, and it’s verified a moment later when her hands come to a stop against his skin. He squeezes his eyes shut and fights the need to reach up and pull them away from his body, away from the trickle of cold anxiety that is threatening to grow into a river under his skin, drowning reason and logic. She shifts a little, and her weight on top of him turns from familiar and safe to claustrophobic, and he can’t catch his breath. He abruptly pushes up on his hands and knees, dislodging Natasha in the process.

In the corner of his eye he sees her reach for him, but he holds up his hands. “I’m okay," he croaks. 

Yeah, right, her face tells him, but she sits back on her heels. 

The food sits sickly in his tight stomach as he tries to get his shit under control. It takes maybe a minute, and by then he hates himself. He gets to his feet and stumbles to the couch and sits down heavily. He puts his elbows on his knees and bows his head, interlacing his fingers behind his neck. Fuck. What the hell is wrong with him? It’s Natasha. _Natasha_ , for god’s sake.

“Maybe we should call it a night?” she suggests easily, and there's nothing in her voice that speaks of pity, and it makes him feel a little better, like maybe he can pretend this isn't such a big deal.

"Yeah," he says without lifting his eyes from the floor between his feet.

"Do you need me to stay?"

"No."  

“Barton, I know you can't help being a moron sometimes, so let me put it another way. Do you _want_ me to stay?”

He closes his eyes. He doesn't need her to stay, but yes, dear god, he _wants_ her to. He nods.

Her hand brushes lightly over his shoulder, then gives him a push that almost puts him on his side. "You are such an idiot."

*   *   *   *   *


	5. Chapter 5

Clint’s knees hit the floor. _I’ll move_ , he tries to tell them, but he can’t, the rush of panic tears the words away, and there’s no air. No air. He knows the drill, he has to move, he's not allowed to stop, but there’s nowhere to go, he’s trapped, surrounded on all sides by darkness and hard surfaces and hands. Hands, there are hands on him. They’ll steal his air, they’ll take it and won’t give it back, and he’s going to die. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t-  

"Clint, stop. Stop."

Their hands on him turn into Natasha’s. Her distorted voice barely lifts over the buzzing in his head. He feels his nails scrabbling over the skin at his throat, scratching, clawing, and he can’t make himself stop, because the rope’s gonna tighten, it's gonna—  _Get it off. Natasha, get it off._

"Stop that, there’s nothing there." Natasha's fingers tighten around his, pulls them away. "Listen to me. Clint, _listen_." Her voice becomes more substantial, takes familiar shape and form. "There’s nothing there. You can breathe."  

He shakes his head. No, he can't, there's no air, not enough room in his lungs and it feels like he’s sinking.

"Breathe. You're fine. There's no one else here, just me."

Her fingers tighten around his wrists. The pressure becomes a welcome focal point, grounding him in the here and now, and the line between dream and reality slowly starts to crystalize. His bedroom. He’s in his own bedroom, on the floor next to the bed, and god, he can breathe. He’s safe, he’s not going to be made to crawl, not going to be made to choose which one of them who will hurt him next. The tears hit as the relief registers for real. Natasha shifts and pulls him into a loose embrace, and Clint kind of topples against her.

"You can breathe," Natasha says quietly.  

"I can breathe," he sobs, and his voice hitches so bad the words are partially lost. "I can breathe. I can." He keeps repeating it, over and over, reminding himself, because it's still so real in his head, so close and so horrible. 

The crying spell is achingly intense. He hasn't come apart like this since after Loki, and he feels wrung out and cold when it finally dies down. The dark room falls silent around them and Clint just focuses on matching the cadence of her breathing. It's quite a while before the steady in and out becomes natural again, before it becomes something he doesn’t have to force.    

"You back with me?" she asks against his hair, her voice low and gentle.

"All present and accounted for," he mumbles.

She scratches her nails lightly against his scalp and lets him collect himself a few more minutes.

"Sorry," he mumbles hoarsely when he has recovered enough for embarrassment to start rearing its head. He tries to sit up, but Natasha doesn't let go, and honestly, he doesn't want to move, so he only puts up token resistance before relaxing back against her.

She shifts against him, fits them more comfortably against the side of the bed. "Bulgaria, I assume", she says when she's satisfied with their positions.

He nods.  

"Looked like a bad one."

"Yeah."

"Is it like this a lot?"

"Define a lot."

She doesn't answer, doesn’t engage in the deflection.  

He sighs. "Lately it’s been… yeah, it’s been a lot." He doesn’t say almost every night, but he knows she can hear the truth underneath his words.

"Were you having frequent nightmares before Greene?"

"No. It was fine, I was sleeping fine."

"So, what happened?"

"Don't tell me you haven't read the reports."

"I don't have access."  

He snorts tiredly. "Like that has ever stopped you before."

"Point," she concedes. "Yes, I've read the reports, but I meant what happened in here." She taps the side of his head lightly.

He peels himself off her, and this time she lets him. He leans back against the bed and pulls his knees up, rests his elbows on them. "I don't know." It’s the truth. It had been as much of a surprise to him as it had been to the people around him. "I mean, I had probably twenty people try out that move on me, and it was fine. You know I would have tapped out if anything had felt off. It was fine. It really was. Then Greene happened…" He scrubs his hands over his face. "Then _I_ happened to Greene, and... I just don’t know, Nat."

The whole headlock thing is an indisputable factor, but the whole week since it happened he’s been trying to figure out why he flipped out on Greene and not on any of the other junior agents in the class who had tried that hold on him. Underwood and Lisp are about the same size as One, and their dialects hail from the same general area. Pellot actually looks a little like Two, and he sure has the size to match, but nope, Clint had lost it with Greene. Greene, who doesn’t look anything like his captors, doesn’t sound like them, doesn’t move or do anything else like them.

"I don’t know," he says again.

Natasha pats him on the arm. "Let's get back into bed," she suggests, and Clint is more than happy to get off the floor and climb back under the still warm covers.  

"You okay?" she asks when they’ve both settled down and the room is quiet once again.

"Yeah. Sorry for waking you. You should go back to sleep."   

"So should you. Will you be able to?"  

Despite the exhaustion after his emotional meltdown, a stubborn unease hums in his chest and falling back into another one of those dreams doesn’t appeal one bit at the moment. "Probably not," he admits. "Not for a while."

"Want to watch some TV?"

He shakes his head. "Go back to sleep, Nat."  

She’s silent for so long that he starts thinking she’s taken his suggestion, but then she speaks. "It's not the first time someone has reacted badly after something like that."

"I know."   

"It’s not even the first time you have wigged out. Remember the vending machine-incident?"

He groans. "I thought we agreed we weren’t ever going to mention that again."

"I recall no such agreement," she says lightly. Her tone turns serious again. "It’s not the first time, Clint. And it won’t be the last."

"I know, but that doesn’t make me feel better. I flipped out. On my home turf. Surrounded by newbies who pose about as much a threat to me as cotton candy." He turns on his side and faces her in the dark. It takes a while to convince himself to speak the words that have been rolling around in his head for the past few days.

"Nat?"

"Yes?"

"I don’t want to become Bliss."  

The bedside lamp on her side comes on, spreading warm light in the room. She sits and looks down at him. "Bliss had other problems, you know that. You were triggered by a very specific thing, and Clint, let me take this opportunity to tell you again how utterly moronic it was to put yourself in that situation voluntarily."

"Thanks, it didn’t quite stick the first thirty-six times," he mutters.

"You’re not Bliss. You’ll never be him. You’re stronger."  

"I know," he says, because he knows that’s what she wants to hear. But what if he can’t trust himself anymore, what if this is the time he snaps? What if he wakes up in restraints one day and is told he just killed another bunch of friends and co-workers? This time there will be no excuse. No Loki, just Clint Barton. Sure, he’s been down bad paths before, but he can’t help think that this feels more precarious, that the ground under his feet feels more slippery. That he’s closer to the edge this time. It’s just a feeling, but it scares the shit out of him.   

"If it bothers you so much, then let’s do something about it," she says.

He snorts. "Yeah. Sure. Let’s do something about it. Cause it’s just that simple."  

Her hand comes to rest lightly on his arm. "I can do this for you," she says quietly.

"What do you mean?"

"I can help give you control."

"Control of what?" Clint squints up at her. "The nightmares?"

"Your reactions."

He narrows his eyes. "How?"  

"I can take you there safely." She lies down next to him and brushes her hand up his chest until the tips of her fingers just touch the lower part of his Adam’s apple. She lets them rest there, light as air. "I can give you the control you didn't have back there, I can make it… easier."

He pulls her hand away from his skin and stares at her, spending a few seconds trying to find some other possible meaning in her words than the one that jumps out at him. He comes up empty.

"Are you talking about… about desensitization?"

She doesn’t blink, just looks right back at him, so calm and so steady, and he can’t stop the laugh that escapes.

"Jesus, Nat. You're kidding me, right?" He's half amused, half uneasy, because he knows she’s dead serious. It's how she does things, she confronts her fears straight on, subdues them, takes control of them by brute force. It's not like Clint shies away from his fears, he just doesn't… go chasing after them unless they interfere with his job or fuck up his private life big time.

Both stipulations, he supposes, are true as of last week.  

"I’m pretty sure mental health professionals frown upon mere mortals like us taking a swing at it on our own," he feels the need to point out. He realizes he’s still holding on to her wrist and releases her.   

"If it makes you feel any better I can let you call me Doctor Romanoff," she says with a small smile.

His laughs shakily. "For some reason I've always pictured you more as Naughty Nurse Romanoff than Doctor Romanoff."

He appreciates her attempt at levity, but just thinking about what she’s offering makes part of him want to edge away from her, and god, that's fucked up, because it's not like she's going to wait for him to go to sleep, then ambush him and put him in a sleeper hold.

"I mean it, Clint. I can do this for you. Do you want me to?" 

He shakes his head. "I really, _really_ don’t."

"Okay," she says easily. She rolls over and turns off the light. He hears her settle down to sleep.

An hour later Clint is still staring at the dark ceiling.

*   *   * 

When Clint wakes up the next morning he's got a headache, but other than that he’s okay. Well, okay-ish. Okay-er.

Natasha is her usual charming self (god knows how she manages to be sweet and mild and delightful before lunch when she’s under cover, because she sure as hell isn't when she is herself), and he's relieved that he feels nothing out of the ordinary when she grumpily fights him for the first cup of coffee. His discomfort from last night feels pale and frankly ridiculous in the glaring morning light.  

Natasha takes off to parts unknown a few hours later, eliciting a promise from Clint that he won't hole up in his apartment the three days she'll be gone. Eat, she tells him sternly. Take your goddamn sleeping pills if you need them. And if you get arrested, don't call me. The last is a standing instruction, an inside thing between them. She doesn't mean it. He knows he can call her any time, day or night, for any reason, and if she's at all able, she will answer. Or at least call back. Doesn't mean she’s a pushover. He remembers Memphis, where that particular instruction originated. He had used his single phone call to call her, and she had showed up in person to make sure he was okay, then left him to ponder his life choices in the county jail drunk tank overnight. She doesn't suffer fools easily.     

He eats breakfast and decides that today is as good a day as any to try to talk to Greene again. The guy deserves an explanation, and Clint doesn't want hallway whispers about his kill ratio or head count or some throwback comment to his time as Loki's bitch to be the only thing he hears. So, he cleans himself up and calls Coulson to see if he can put him in contact with Greene.

Coulson texts ten minutes later and tells Clint to meet him in one hour. There’s another text seconds after the first. _Bring coffee. Machine KIA._

*    *    * 

"Special Agent Barton."

Coulson walks into the empty break room, Greene at his heels. The kid’s arm is in a sling, and one side of his face is still mottled green and yellow.

"Sir," Clint greets Coulson. "Greene."  

Coulson nods in greeting and accepts the coffee cup Clint hands him. He takes a sip, and it’s only from years of exposure to his micro-expressions that Clint catches the look of bliss that passes over his face. "Thank you," he tells Clint. "Now, you requested a meeting, and Agent Greene agreed."

"I appreciate it," Clint tells Greene, who stands half a step behind Coulson. Clint makes sure to keep his stance relaxed and offers a small smile.

Coulson puts his hand on Greene’s good shoulder. "Remember, this is a voluntary meeting," he says, and it’s clearly a reminder of something the two of them talked about before coming here. "You’re free to leave at any time. You understand?"

Greene nods. "Yes, Sir."

Clint and Greene both watches Coulson retreat to the other side of the room where he pulls up his tablet and starts tapping away at it, clearly not going any further than that. Clint is pretty sure it’s for Greene’s sake, but he kinda appreciates it, too, because he feels stupidly nervous.   

Greene plays with the cast padding that peeks out from under the cast. He looks at Clint, then over his shoulder at Coulson. He frowns a little as he turns back to Clint. "This feels so weird," he says.

Clint really wants to talk to Greene, but if he’s uncomfortable Clint isn’t going to force it. "Listen, if you’re not okay with this, I—" 

"No, not that. I mean Agent Coulson." Greene lowers his voice. "Feels like we're being chaperoned. I’m having flashbacks to Sister Mary-Helen telling us to leave room for Jesus." Clint huffs out a surprised laugh, and Green starts to smile in response, then he suddenly seems to remember that it was a flashback that resulted in their present situation. "Shit. I didn’t—" He grimaces. "Sorry, Sir."   

"No worries," Clint grins. The mental image of Coulson in a nun’s habit is hilarious, and he suddenly feels better about this. "Thanks for seeing me," he says and sobers up. "I just want to apologize for…" he trails off and motions at Greene's arm and face.

"It’s okay. Don’t worry about it," Greene says, and wow, he is _a lot_ more chill than he had been when Clint had tried apologizing the first time. Clint is certain Coulson’s presence has a lot to do with it. That, and maybe the fact that a few days have passed. Natasha was right. It had been too soon.

"How long are you stuck in the cast?" he asks.  

Greene glances down at his arm. "At least another five weeks."

"Sorry. That sucks." Clint peers at all the names and dirty pictures drawn on the cast. "Has it started to itch yet?" 

"Aw, man, I had just managed to stop thinking about it," Greene moans, then he must have realized that he just addressed a high-level operative as ‘man’, because he winces. "Sorry, Sir."

Clint waves it away, he has never cared much for being called that. "Save the Sirs for Agent Coulson."

"Yes, Sir. I mean, uh, Agent Barton."  

"So, listen, I just want you to know that it wasn't you, it wasn’t personal." Clint meets Coulson’s eyes over Greene’s shoulder. Coulson nods in encouragement. Clint had told him what why he wanted to talk to Greene. "I want you to understand what happened, okay? I’m not trying to make excuses or anything, but there are… reasons."

Greene nods.

"There was this op that—" Clint stops. "What's your clearance level?"

"Three."

"You realize there’s a lot I can’t tell you, right?"

Greene nods again. His eyes have taken on a look of barely suppressed excitement, the kind seen in newbies who think covert operations and big booms and Strike teams are so damn cool, the kind of look that fades quickly after seeing the reality of field work up close and personal. The boredom. The frustration. The exhaustion, the blood, the violence. The losses.      

Clint tells Greene a very short, very censored and very sanitized version of the two last days of his Bulgaria job, and he feels self-conscious the whole time he talks. He said he wasn’t trying to make excuses, but that’s exactly what it feels like he’s doing, like he's trying to minimize the brutality of his attack. He's not, he owns his actions. All of them.

" _Damn_ ," Greene mutters when Clint finishes. He looks a little sick even though Clint deliberately kept the details to a minimum.

Clint shrugs. "Shit happens."

Greene opens his mouth, then closes it before he says anything.

"Go on," Clint prods.

"It’s just… I’ve been wondering. Was there something that, I don’t know, that set it off? You let half the group do the same thing I did, and that was alright." 

"I don’t know," Clint admits. "I really don’t. It was fine. And then it wasn’t."

"You ever had something like that happen to you before?"   

"What? Have I ever gotten captured before? Yes. Have I ever been beaten or otherwise mistreated? Yes. Have I ever flipped out after the fact? Yes. But it usually doesn't end with people in a cast and with a concussion." He makes a face. "Sorry," he offers again.

"It’s fine. I get it." Greene studies him. "So, how _does_ it usually end?"

Clint is saved by his phone going off, because that is more than he is comfortable sharing. He gives Greene a practiced grin. "That, I’m afraid, is waaaay above your clearance level."

He digs his phone from his jeans pocket and answers. It's Steve, wondering if he wants to tag along this weekend for a trek along the Appalachian Trail with him and Sam, and Clint takes the opportunity to finish off his conversation with Greene by putting a hand over the receiver and citing pressing Shield business. On the other side of the room, Coulson rolls his eyes at Clint behind Greene’s back.

Before Clint walks away he mouths a final ‘Sorry’ to Greene, who looks not at all nervous any longer, more awed than anything else, and that wasn’t something Clint had been aiming for here. He had just wanted to apologize and make sure Greene was doing okay. And from the look of things, the kid is dealing. Sure, looks can be deceiving, Clint of all people should know that, but at least Greene isn’t watching Clint like he’s expecting to be beaten to death if he as much as twitches.

He feels lighter and calmer than he has for days as he walks down the stairs. He tells Steve yes, he's in. After all, he did promise Natasha not to go all hermit on them, and spending some time away from the city sounds good.


End file.
